Collecting Legends
by Shadowy Star
Summary: Where old legends die, new ones come to birth. [DxG]
1. Legend One

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

December 2005

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Characters not appearing or being mentioned in the original trilogy belong likewise to me.

**A/N:** Where old legends die, new ones come to birth.

I just wondered how far Damien would go.

**Legend One**

Damien sighed heavily but quietly into his beer. Thoughts too far away from reality running through his mind, he was barely aware of other people around in the dimly lit common room of a small way-side inn.

Now that he knew the inner essence of Gerald Tarrant had at last survived, he surely must be able to return to his own life.

Trying to convince himself he'd left Black Ridge Pass and made his way to here, to Yamas. He intended to stay here for a while before traveling west. Maybe back in Ganji he could start to regain his life. But knowing himself much better by now he had to admit that –in best case– it would be an imitation of life. The Church was closed to him. Expelled by his own free will he knew he wouldn't, _couldn't_ return and go throughout his life as if the past three years hadn't happened at all. He'd seen too many things he'd preferred not to have seen and traveled too many tangled roads for too long to be able of ever wholly sharing their faith again. No one waited for him because there was nothing left of him to wait for. He had simply lost too much.

And somehow, he was lost to the world.

He remembered his lone ride to Yamas. Once he'd preferred to travel alone. Once there had been some kind of freedom in it, in being alone. How much things had changed, he wondered. How much _he_ had changed. Now it had been strange and discomforting. Not to have another to share the guard, not to see another around, not to feel another's presence in his own soul…

No one needed him except perhaps the only one person who was lost to him forever. No doubt, Gerald had always been able to look after himself therefore he didn't need anyone to do that for him but towards the end of their three years journey they both had finally learned to trust each other. To rely on each other.

Damien couldn't help but worry for his ex-companion. Gerald wasn't an adept anymore. Damien missed his own ability to touch the fae every second when he was awake and dreamed of it when he slept. How much more terrible –and terrifying– it must be for Gerald, even if he was still able to See? _Especially_ if he was still able to See. To See, but never to Work. He'd always relied on his powers, for nine hundred years and longer. What would he do without them now? Would he find a place to live? Damien asked himself.

He stood and went upstairs to his room. _Accept it,_ he thought. _Gerald is lost to you._ _Say it._ He made his way to the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. Then, he looked into the small mirror hanging on the gray-painted wall. _Gerald Tarrant is lost to Damien Vryce._ The sheer pain of that thought burned once again a hole into his heart. Staring at his own reflection, he clenched his teeth against the pain but it didn't help – as usual. He wondered if he'd ever grow used to that.

"Gerald Tarrant is lost to Damien Vryce," he repeated out loud.

And then stopped.

The idea that suddenly started to shape itself out of the bleak hopelessness within his mind was incredible enough to let him doubt the state of his mental health.

∞

TBC…


	2. Legend Two

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Two**

The man once known as Gerald Tarrant sat at an elegant mahagova-table in an old and fashionable restaurant in Jaggonath. He was sorting today's work. It had been simple to get a license as a loremaster. He smiled slightly at that. He'd spoken to Damien without thinking, back then on the Black Ridge Pass, claiming to be interested in legends. Later on he'd decided this to be _the_ perfect job for him. If anyone had stories to tell it was surely him. And during the last month he'd managed to get a surprising lot of jobs. He already was throughout his breakfast, a meal of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. Sated, he paid the bill and reached out for 'The Jaggonath Gazette' lying atop the table. After checking the stock exchange column first –his investments kept increasing in value– and quite near to get bored, he turned the page and froze in shock.

His sight blurred as the world around him seemed rapidly to collapse to a singularity, his hands shaking violently.

This couldn't be true…

Perhaps he'd read wrong.

He forced himself to raise the page to his eyes and read the heading again.

'An ex-priest's suicide', the headline ran. _Oh, God, please,_ he thought helplessly while a cold, much worse than that the coldfire had ever caused, started to unstoppably creep into his soul. _Don't let it be _him, _please_. 'Once again the now unWorkable fae caused a suicide. For all it seems Damien Kilcannon Vryce, an ex-priest of the Church of Unification couldn't cope with loss of his abilities as a sorcerer. Three days ago he committed suicide by his sword. A letter found in his room at an inn in Yamas tells of a crisis of faith and self-worth….' Lines swimming before his eyes, he didn't manage to finish reading the article. His hands still shaking, his fingers crumpled the newsletter as he rose and strode out of the restaurant, down the stairs and back to his house. It wasn't a long way to go and he didn't retain any part of it that day. When the entrance door fell closed behind him he finally lost the grip at the totally creased pages. All strength seemed to leave his body as his legs gave in and the carpet-covered floor moved rapidly closer.

And sitting there, in a room as dark as his soul had suddenly become, now with its only light switched off forever, he silently wept.

∞

TBC…


	3. Legend Three

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend ****three**

The owner of the little inn with the poetic name 'The Fourth Moon' in one of the northern districts of Sheva cursed loudly and fiercely.

Dusk had fallen and all too soon Domina also would set. Only Casca would shine until Prima's late rise – not enough light at all. Not quite the same as a True Night but still… They _would_ come again. That damned fae constructs that were no more to Banish or to Ward against – not since the fae had become unWorkable. They killed a man just within reach of her front door yesterday night. No, just 'killed' didn't match it completely. 'Devoured' would be far more fitting.

"Damn the Patriarch!" she said. "And his Church! Damn, damn and damn again!" Joanna Lorn was a pagan. She used to pray to a dozen of gods and goddesses when she needed their help and to forget them otherwise. Of course, she was glad about the successful end of the Second Crusade and the destroying of the Forest –who would _not_?– but … had it been really necessary to 'tame' the fae? That was a fact she wasn't glad about, not in the slightest. Because now there were no way to deal with all the demonlings still inhabiting the night – not if you weren't a warrior or something of the sort. She hadn't been a sorceress, not really –no sane human being living that near the Forest would have dared– but she knew one or other Warding key or a simple–

A knocking on the tavern's front door cut off her train of thoughts. One more stupid tourist who came to watch the Forest burn, like all the others sitting in the common room and filling the air with the sharp stink of their fear, she thought darkly, walking over and opening the door.

The heat of a late summer evening swept over the doorstep, along with a tall, slender shape of a man. For a second she couldn't help but stare. Traveling alone? At night? With all the demonlings out there? Was he completely foolish or simply suicidal?

The man was young, maybe twenty-five or a couple of years more or less, and handsome, even pretty, though she'd never thought of a man as pretty before. His jade-green eyes scanned the tavern's common room with the constant attention of someone used to traveling. His shoulder-long, vividly auburn hair was tied to something of an attempt on a short ponytail at the back of his neck; his clothes were covered with dust that, again, spoke of days of traveling but beneath it obviously spanking new. So were the two pistols on a leather belt around his hips. _Someone at least considerably armed,_ she thought, _and most definitely _not_ a tourist. Even if I would prefer an old-fashioned sword and a Knight of the damn Church to wield it. They at least knew what they did._

She offered a nod and her 'business smile' –superficially friendly but holding no meaning– that would go for welcome.

The young man greeted her with a rough politeness of someone who had traveled for too long without company, but his eyes were warm and full of kindness, and her voice softened a little as she muttered a 'Hello' in return. Politeness was something most people seemed to forget –or not to need– in a town like Sheva.

"Those wouldn't suffice," he said without further explanations, pointing toward a lot of wards burned into the wood above the entrance in and outside. "Not against more than a dozen of very hungry fae constructs, most likely high-level ghouls. What price would you pay to someone who frees you from that horde outside?"

"How… how do you know?" Joanna Lorn asked.

"I saw them awake," the man shrugged carelessly. "How much, then?"

"What does that concern you? You–"

"I need the money," he said shortly, and something flickered briefly in his eyes that had nothing to do with an empty purse, something she couldn't quite place. His tone however unmistakably indicated this was the only answer she would get.

_Politeness for politeness,_ Joanna thought and didn't ask again though she began to feel a bit concerned. Another attack and another corpse in front of her inn wouldn't exactly improve the reputation.

The man smiled again as if sensing her thoughts and she frowned. That perceptiveness was almost weird but what was more weirdness to one's life on Erna?

"If you think you can do something against that plague outside…" she shrugged, trying also to shrug off her misgivings, somehow becoming worried for this youth. There was something about him that awakened her mother instinct. Since her own children were grown-up and lived in Faraday and Jaggonath, she had no one to take care of. This young man bore himself with an air of self-assurance that clearly indicated he was perfectly capable of looking after himself but yet… Something about him, maybe that fleeting expression in his eyes before, spoke of despair and pain and experience much beyond his years…

She shook her head. _What you need is a bunch of grandchildren of your own,_ she thought. _Maybe it's time. Carla has been inviting you to move to Faraday for months now_.

She told a price twice as high as she'd been contemplating paying first.

"Agreed," he nodded shortly in the way of a warrior receiving orders.

With that he turned around and disappeared into the twilight, closing the door firmly behind him. After a short while she heard shots from a pistol, then nothing, then again shots.

Nearly half an hour later –Casca in zenith and Prima finally rising– he returned. His shirt was ripped over the shoulder though the honey-golden skin underneath was smooth and without a scratch.

"Done," he said, with a clearly satisfied smile as if he'd proven something important to himself. "A big nest," he explained, trying to tie his disheveled hair together again and failing because some strands were simply too short for that. "They can't be replaced, you know? Of course other constructs will come –there are enough in the neighborhood– but … never again the fae can create something out of our fears."

She nodded, still unconvinced. That was worth a lot, yes, but she was a pragmatist at heart. Not the necessity to get rid of the demonlings frightened her –she'd done it her lifetime– but the necessity to do it with weapons she wasn't used to. She simply didn't trust in pistols – or in other technology for that matter.

"Wanting a room for the night?" she asked. "And something to eat, maybe?"

"Yes, thank you," he said, a broad smile lightening his face.

She paid then, and thanked again, and showed him a room. And later on, she would send a waitress with her legendary potato soup for that guest who might have saved her and her other guests lives tonight.

And the next morning he left, and she shook her head again as he walked out of the door. Something was definitely strange about that young man – maybe the way he walked, so full of living energy, or his self-confidence so much unusual in someone this young.

It was a couple of days later after she'd talked to two other inn-keepers up the road to the North when she truly began to wonder about the whole matter … because they told her exactly the same tale. It was as if that young man had appeared just in time to answer her need for help. And she wondered again who that man may be – because only after he'd left she'd realized he hadn't given her his name…

TBC…


	4. Legend Four

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Four**

He was dreaming again.

In his dream he was running down a dimly lit corridor. Its walls were plain, painted the pale shade of an egg's shell. A few pictures hung on the walls – vistas of various landscapes, printed, not painted. It seemed ordinary enough to make him frown even in his dream.

He didn't know why he was running. There was only a sense of immense urgency that resonated through each and every of his bones, drove him further, further to an end he couldn't fathom. The more he ran the more urgent the feeling grew – as if something terrible would happen if he didn't reach his destination in time. What ever and _where_ ever that destination was. He only knew he had to reach it. He had to. No matter what.

Sometimes doors appeared along the corridor but he didn't stop for them. An inner feeling that neither door was the right one led him further away. Always down the corridor that never changed. The sight before his eyes was always the same until he couldn't tell no more if he'd moved at all. And again, he ran.

The feeling of dread grew ever more though he thought he most surely wasn't afraid. Not of his surroundings anyway. But he was terribly afraid of what would happen if he failed. If he'd come too late. He tried to analyze the situation again and again but rational thoughts fled at the gravity of that feeling that pulsed in each cell of his brain, overwhelming him completely…

When he became aware of that his surroundings changed. The corridor gave way to a door that he knew instinctively this time _was_ the right one. For the slightest of moments he hesitated but again the feel of urgency overrode anything else and he stepped forward and reached out for the door knob. The door disappeared to a room with equally pale painted walls with equally low-priced pictures and with a window behind which the darkest of all nights extended into eternity.

At that point he realized he was not alone.

He recognized the other person in the room instantly, and when he did, his blood turned to ice with the most intense fear he'd ever known.

Because he knew –oh, he knew– what was about to happen, what would inevitably happen… He knew as sure as if he'd Divined it.

Damien sat on the narrow bed of what, of course, was a hotel room, his sword unsheathed across his knees. Methodically, with movements that spoke of years of experience, he polished the blade until it seemed to shine with an inner light. Almost like coldfire.

When he'd finished his task he put his stuff away and stood.

And turned so Gerald could finally see his face.

The lamp's weak light cast shadows over that dear face but even so Gerald could see the deep sadness in the other man's beautiful brown eyes, tinged with even deeper sorrow. There was something else, too, something that Gerald finally recognized as loneliness but it all was overlaid with the heavy bleakness of resignation.

It was clear the other didn't see him.

Gerald tried to move, to get closer, to make his other see him but couldn't. He wasn't able to move at all.

_No, no, no,_ he screamed silently but, again, that went unnoticed. _No_…

Damien turned his sword –those strong hands so sure, without even as much as a faint trembling– so that its hellish sharp point rested against his sternum.

_No, Damien, no, don't do this, no,_ the endless litany swept away Gerald's ability to think coherently, no, to think at all, _look here, look, I'm here, you're not alone, no …please, no…_

There was nothing he could do but watch in horror as Damien thrust swiftly, and the blade slid smoothly, easily into his chest. He fell to his knees and then slumped to his side, hands loosening their grip on the hilt.

Suddenly, Gerald could move.

He ran to his other and dropped to his knees beside him. His tongue was just as suddenly able to shape words again, and he pleaded as he searched for a flicker of live in Damien's open eyes. "Damien, oh no, please no…"

The other's hazel brown eyes were empty already, staring at vistas beyond the visible, the look upon the beloved face almost serene.

Gerald slid his arms around Damien's limp body, pulling him up to his chest. Tears were running down his cheeks, leaving traces as hot as molten iron. He cradled Damien's head in the crook of his elbow, pressing their bodies together. He'd held the other man like that only once, back then in the caves beneath the Citadel of Storms but back then Damien had been only unconscious and had moved slightly before waking, causing Gerald to lay him back down. There would be no movement now.

"Oh Damien, no, no! Damien!" he screamed.

With that name on his lips, Gerald, now called da Silva, shot up awake to find his cheeks –unsurprisingly– wet and his heart –unsurprisingly– broken.

TBC...


	5. Legend Five

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Five**

It was that late at night one could call it early in the morning.

But then again, a town like Sheva never slept. There was always business of some legal –and many more of the illegal sort– to be finished under the night's velvet cloak. That had increased immensely since the Forest had been set on fire. Without the Hunter out there in the night it had indeed increased immensely, Larissa thought. The freedom to walk the streets in the night was still an incredible feeling. She didn't think she would ever grow used to that.

The bar 'The Serpent's Heart' was surely one of the most dubious in Sheva but Larissa didn't care. She'd needed a distraction from her problems, no, scratch that, from her _life_ that was actually a single big mess. A _very_ big mess.

She gave the barkeeper a hollow smile and ordered the next drink. She'd had much more than she probably should already and definitely enough for a single night but that did not stop her. Patrick be damned for doing this to her! How did he dare leave her? It had seemed so right at first, it had felt so good…

She was lost in memories of happier times when the door opened and a young, good-looking man entered. His posture was weary as if he'd traveled long and hard, his clothes covered with dust.

His steps, nonetheless, were steady and certain in the dim light as he walked to the bar and took a seat. _Very good-looking,_ Larissa reconsidered when finally light hit his face. His eyes were jade-green and tired, she saw. His hair was a vivid shade of auburn, falling down to his shoulders.

He ordered water, earning an irritated glance from the bartender that clearly said: 'Have you lost your brain, boy?'

The stranger, however, seemed to sense that and looked at the short man. "I've been on the road for three days without pause." He smiled tiredly. "If I drink anything stronger than water I'll probably throw up everything I've eaten before right here onto your bar. Would you prefer that?"

"Ugh, no!" the barman said. "Most surely no!"

"See, I knew you'd understand," the green-eyed man smiled cheerfully.

Larissa laughed out loud. _Good joke_, she thought. She left her seat –not without some difficulty walking– and took the one next to the stranger.

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes very focused for the briefest of moments, as if scanning her for danger and dismissing – an acute alertness of someone used to danger and to dealing with it. Larissa knew that look – it was second nature to half the male populace of Sheva. Yet, there was nothing aggressive about that young man, just something that made her feel …well, save… like never before. Maybe it had something to do with those green eyes, calm now and warm…

She didn't know how it happened but only a few minutes of small-talk she caught herself at telling him all her problems, the break with Patrick, her loneliness, all her doubts and hopes. He listened with great patience and understanding, and said words of comfort when she needed them and remained silent when she didn't. His perceptiveness astounded her. A few minutes after that Larissa was weeping openly.

When her drunken tears finally stopped falling, she made an attempt at at least appearing collected.

From his small approving nod she was obviously succeeding.

Larissa smiled, all the alcohol in her system making her bold. Gods, he really looked good. She leaned over and placed her hand onto his. _So much for subtlety,_ she thought. _To Hell with subtlety,_ the more drunken part of her brain insisted. Yes, she agreed.

The stranger's calm green eyes crinkled with amusement as he recognized her flirtation for what it was. However, he still took her hand and gently removed it from his.

Larissa looked at him, confused beyond words. She _knew_ she was an attractive woman.

"I'm not that drunk!" she said. "Is it because of that?" Dammit! A town like Sheva and she managed to run straight into – what? The last knight on Erna?

The stranger smiled openly, as if sensing her thoughts. "Part of it, yes."

_Part of it?_ Larissa thought, fuming silently.

"Look," he said, his tone very polite and very distant, "you're attractive and I understand your situation, I truly do. You may think you want this but believe me you don't. You'll wake up tomorrow –or maybe today, I can't tell how many drinks you've had anymore– and ask yourself what the bloody Hell you were thinking to have sex with a man you've known for no more than five minutes."

"I don't care!" Larissa exclaimed. Why the Hell wasn't he interested? Was he married? A quick glance at his hands told her he wasn't. No rings on either hand. Then a girlfriend?

"Oh but you do. Trust me, you do." His voice held a trace of humor as he spoke.

She searched his eyes then for that special sort of proprietarily contentment men often do have when they have a relationship. Either he was really just that knightly or… It was then when it struck her. Sobering considerably, she took a closer look at him, trying to see what was behind that handsome face. His beautiful jade-green eyes were not that of a young man at all. Not by a long shot. They were like deep pools of experience, showing only a reflection, giving away nothing.

"Somehow I don't believe all's left to you is seducing innocent travelers." He went on and smiled a sweet, lop-sided smile. "Not that I would pass for innocent," he added with not a little amount of bitterness though his smile remained in place._ All right,_ Larissa thought, her instincts of a journalist kicking in, _time to make an educated guess_. Her curiosity and her intuition were what made her that good at her job.

"Who is she?" she asked.

The green eyes now clearly showed incomprehension.

"The woman who broke your heart," Larissa clarified.

The stranger looked at her in surprise, then gave her a noncommittal smile. For a moment Larissa was sure he wouldn't answer. Then, the look in his eyes changed as if he was considering whether to answer honestly._ Oh, a hard nut to crack,_ she thought. She was sober enough already to sense the reluctance in the young man's voice and words but not so to respect it, and so her resolution only grew stronger. She _would_ crack that nut. Besides, she often had been told she just never knew when to stop. Maybe that was part of her problem with Patrick, it dawned on her belatedly.

"One left me for her work, the other died," he finally replied, somewhat cautiously as if listening to something, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to say that. Then, he relaxed a little, and Larissa took it for a good sign. "There were many before… None …how did you phrase it again?… 'broke my heart'."

"Then who did?" Larissa asked again. And for a moment, just for a split second, she could sense a hurt in him, a wound so deep she shrunk away before the jade-green eyes grew hard, now reminding her more of emeralds, hard and cold, their surface impermeable. It was that fleeting impression that made her stop. And against all her instincts and all her curiosity she didn't ask twice. For behind the stranger's warm eyes and polite tone, behind his kindness and perceptiveness and all the understanding there was something strong and unyielding, something that told her even in her drunken state that there would be no way past it no matter how hard she tried.

"Good luck to you," he said by way of good-bye.

And that was it.

She watched him rise and pay for his fourth water and leave the bar and she just couldn't help the feeling of an intense sadness that crept up her throat as if she'd had caught a glimpse at something good and perfect that now was lost to the world.

TBC...


	6. Legend Six

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend six**

Gerald looked into the mirror and frowned. The dark blue rings under his eyes were completely unacceptable!

_Damned dreams!_ he thought furiously, picking up his brush and starting to comb his hair. This was the fifth night in a row he had that very same nightmare over and over again. It followed always the same script and he was unable to change it no matter how hard he tried. If only he still were able to Work! It would have been so easy to banish that product of his unconscious. He imagined the Workings required, almost heard the fae whisper – and stopped himself rather abruptly. Getting rid of those unnerving dreams wasn't worth dying. On the other hand… he might not want to admit it, but he was afraid of sleeping now. Afraid of that dream where Damien was always dying and he always could do nothing to prevent it…

_Oh, damn!_ he thought again. Why was he dreaming that? Why was that stubborn ex-priest's death affecting him so much? He could logically explain his first reaction after reading the news, even his tears –it was only appropriate to mourn the loss of a companion, a friend even, after all– but… He had been alone for a long tome. He should be able to go back to that. He should be perfectly able to go on with his new life. He most surely _shouldn't_ be having nightmares of that said friend committing suicide. He _shouldn't_ be trying to change them. And most certainly he _shouldn't_ feel guilty! Was that his fault the damned knight decided to throw away his life like that? _Yes ,it_ _was,_ a part of his brain insisted. _And he'd been more than a friend_. Gerald firmly shoved that thought away. He didn't need anyone. He was perfectly content with his life as it was and with his work as it proceeded. There was so much to explore now, so much research that had to be done… Then why did he feel as if something important, something essential, was missing? Why did he want, no, _did he long for_, someone to share his thoughts with? And not just for someone, but for one special person. _Damien…_ he thought and a feeling he actually didn't want to explore further made his throat constrict painfully. Was it possible that he missed him?

Wait, did he really just think that? Gerald almost growled in exasperation. What was wrong with him? _Yes, you did,_ that same part of his brain piped up again, more insistent this time. And he was talking to himself, now what was the word for that again? Insanity? _Just great! _he thought and smiled dryly, imagining himself telling his story to a psychiatrist. No, he chose a live outside an insane asylum, thank you very much. He would go and manage this alone.

He hadn't expected himself to grow that used to his friend's presence. He hadn't expected it at all. How did it happen? When did it happen? He'd always been solitary even when he'd been married. He'd loved his wife, true, –or at least he'd thought he did– but Almea had never been able to break through his shields of solitude. Sometimes he hadn't even noticed if she was there. When he'd gotten absorbed in one of his projects he'd kept even forgetting he was married at all. Almea had been a devoted wife and mother but she'd never shared his interests. She'd appreciated the results of those interests such as truehorses for example, but she had never been able to converse about or even understand how he'd achieved it. And later on when he'd become the Hunter… Amoril? Most certainly not the albino! Any other of his servants? No. There simply hadn't been anyone.

Until Damien came. Damien with his quick wit and his education, medical, clerical and otherwise, Damien with his boundless curiosity and his intense sense of honor, with his fiery temper and the almost inhumanly great understanding, with his selflessness and this warm and caring heart... All this and all the additional characteristics had made him a perfect partner for Gerald. Wistfully he remembered their discussion on nearly every topic possible during their journeys across the ocean. Those conversations –that sometimes had ended in a spectacular argument he'd always wanted but not always managed to win– had covered everything from theology to space travel, from battle tactics to Healing methods, from genetics to the concept of faith, from Erna's fae to Terran technology. It had been so refreshing and inspiring. So, yes, he answered himself, yes, he missed Damien. Only in the intellectual way, of course. _If you say so,_ again that part of his brain – or his soul maybe?

He looked into the mirror. His hands had long ago ceased their movement. Unseeingly he stared down at his fists he didn't remember clenching.

Nothing of this had been supposed to happen! Andrys hadn't been supposed to be at Gerald's keep, he himself hadn't been supposed to fake his death and Damien wasn't supposed to die! Suddenly furious again –though he'd never be able to tell whether at the ex-priest or at himself–, he flung the brush at the mirror, smashing the polished surface to pieces. When they rained down, each carrying his reflection, he had to shove the obvious metaphor of a broken heart –which that annoying part of his brain enthusiastically supplied him with– out of his mind. Firmly. That was completely out of the question! Damn it again, he had work to do and a life to live!

And that he would do, he decided. He wouldn't let any nightmares get in his way. He braided his hair carefully, checked his appearance for possible imperfection one last time and left the house.

On his way to the small café that provided the best coffee in the city, he passed by the Jaggonath Cathedral. In his current state of mind he probably should have taken another route as he realized belatedly. And now… There were so many things to remind him of his stubborn, warm-hearted friend, the Cathedral being one of them.

He couldn't help but ask himself if things could have taken a different course. If only there had been another way to get out of his fortress, if only Andrys had been more understanding, if only the Patriarch hadn't started his Crusade… _Right, blame it on anyone else but yourself_.

Gerald shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was so unlike him to doubt his actions. He had tried to analyze his situation. Abstractly, he knew he was emotionally instable at the moment but he refused to acknowledge it. That was entirely Damien's fault. How did the priest dare die on him?!

He was fuming as he bought his coffee, and he was fuming as he walked down the street to the city library, and he was still fuming when he reached his destination.

He got distracted for a while searching for the books he required and carrying them to his table. When he caught himself staring at the same page for minutes without being able to tell what the text was about, he tried to concentrate harder which seemed to work out. For twenty seconds or so.

And when his thoughts kept straying to how much he'd appreciated Damien's presence or how much their friendship had meant to him or how warm-hearted and forgiving Damien had been or how beautiful those brown eyes– He practically slammed the book shut, creating a puff of dust, causing a sound that rang earsplittingly loud in the library's quiet, and getting a disapproving 'Hush!' from the old librarian. That was it! Was there a way to stop himself thinking that? _Damien's dead,_ he forced himself to think. The pain that shot through his heart at that nearly made him think he was suffering another heart failure. Only now Damien wouldn't be there to Heal him…

He left the library without as much as giving his research a single thought. He had to get rid of those dreams before they drove him insane in earnest.

TBC…


	7. Legend Seven

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Seven**

Raphael Cerys fired again and swore violently as the soft hollow click told him he had no ammunition left. He growled and threw his pistol, now useless, at his opponent. The burglar ducked it easily, laughing maliciously all the time. One God, Raphael thought, that wasn't how his expedition to the Lethe River was supposed to end. They were just five tourists to see the place where the world had changed. How could they have been so stupid to think tourism to be the only one way to make money for the people there?

The burglar swung his sword at him and Raphael dived for the ground. Trying to get out of reach, he gripped the hilt of his long knife desperately. What good would it do against a sword?

Then there was a sound of thundering hooves and of a shot and Raphael watched the burglar to his right fall to the ground, his forehead a mess of splintered bone, blood, and brain matter. Raphael's opponent whirled around at that, and his face was pale with fear.

"Hey!" a male voice shouted at the burglar who seemed to have found his courage again for he gripped his sword tightly.

"It can't be him," the bandit said in a low voice. "He only hunts down the faeborn…"

Raphael looked up to the man on the horse only to see that his posture was that of a very experienced rider, that his face was hidden by the hood of his cloak, and that his hands held that same pistol that just had helped another burglar to the Gates of Death.

"Fight someone who knows how to use that toothpick of yours!" the man added and dismounted, sliding off his hood in the process and revealing hair a vivid shade of auburn. With that he unceremoniously picked up a sword that had fallen to the ground as Vanessa Lary, the only one of them who knew how to use a pistol adequately, had shot down its owner. The sword was a plain, somewhat corroded blade that even to Raphael' unqualified eyes didn't look much serviceable and disgust flickered in the man's green eyes as he readied himself to fight.

The bandit didn't need any further invitation and swung his sword in a wide circle that seemed deadly to Raphael's eyes but that was ducked easily by their mysterious rescuer who danced back with easy grace. Then he whirled his own sword in an elegant movement and two blades clashed and rang, the sound of steel on steel echoing loudly in the warm evening's quiet. The bandit advanced but the green-eyed man answered effortlessly, his blade darting forward faster than the eye could see. It was obvious even to Raphael the bandit couldn't so much as dream to match the other's skill.

But not even skill could make up for a broken sword, and Raphael felt his blood turn to ice in his veins at the sharp metallic sound when the corroded blade in their defender's hands broke.

The man jumped back elegantly, mostly looking irritated at the blade's odd behavior.

The bandit grinned evilly and flew at the young man with an enraged growl, aiming for his chest.

And suddenly, it was over.

Raphael stared in disbelief at the scene before his eyes. The bandit lie motionlessly at the other man's feet with the broken blade's pitiful rest buried to the hilt in his throat. Raphael blinked a few times trying to process how that had happened and registered only now the remaining bandits had fled by that time.

"Who are you?" he finally managed as he approached their savior on shaking legs. Only now he could see the other's face clearly and he was surprised at how young the other actually was. He had to be at least four years younger than Raphael himself.

The man's face was unreadable as he looked down at the burglar and the broken sword embedded in the man's throat and only then, again, an expression of disgust at probably both man and blade showed on his face.

Finally, it dawned on Raphael who he was talking to. "You're the one who hunts the demonlings, aren't you?"

The man smiled faintly and nodded by way of introduction. "Yes."

"Where the Hell did you learn to fight like this?" Raphael asked then, staring at him with an emotion that was partly awe and partly horror.

"We live, we learn," their savior said finally with a shrug. "Be careful next time," he added, and mounted.

"Hey, wait," Raphael said, realizing he'd said something he shouldn't. "You can't just vanish like that after saving our lives! We must have the opportunity to thank you."

"I didn't do this for money," the man said simply, a statement of absolute truth.

"That's good," Raphael said with an attempt on humor, "because we have not much of that left. At least eat with us."

"Alright," the man nodded, smiling, and dismounted again. "Thank you."

Later this evening, after they had dealt with the bodies of the two bandits, the young man had appeared to know much more about camps than any of Raphael's party and had proved that very efficiently by showing them various ways to build a fire among with other useful things. Soon, they had a small fire burning.

It was Vanessa then to ask the question Raphael had been wondered about all the time. She leaned forward to meet the stranger's eyes.

"How did you know we were in trouble? I just can't believe it was a coincidence."

The jade-green eyes sparkled with amusement but beneath that there was something so very distant Raphael supposed no serenity could ever reach. "Well, shots can be heard on a much larger distance than sword fights, you know," he smiled again and Raphael found he particularly liked that smile.

Across the fire Raphael caught a curious look from Vanessa. She was his best friend right on from the kindergarten and a one-night lover when they had been teens and before Raphael had figured out his preferences. Thankfully, neither fact did manage to ruin their friendship.

Given the fact his last lover was a selfish moron and had deserved to be dumped, no wonder Vanessa was curious now…

Raphael looked away from her inquiring blue eyes and made the mistake to meet the stranger's jade-green ones in the process. He couldn't deny those were a truly beautiful shade of green.

The man was obviously lost in his own thoughts –which Raphael was thankful for– and Raphael's movement seemed to snap him out of them. But when their eyes met Raphael realized the younger man hadn't been _that_ lost in his thoughts. Because in his eyes were understanding and a polite regret Raphael had seen too many times before – a regret of someone who knows what you want and can't give it.

Raphael turned his gaze away.

"You should be careful, riding through the forests like this. They still aren't safe," the stranger remarked calmly. "And I'm referring not to bandits only. If I may say so, making camp out here isn't what you'd call a brilliant idea."

"Agree with you totally," Dan, Raphael's second-best friend, said mockingly, "but pray blame it on this pitiful excuse of a leader beside you."

"You hold your tongue!" Raphael snapped at him.

"As I said," Dan went on, grinning, "so much for his leadership skill."

Vanessa took in the situation, exchanged a look with Samantha, Dan's lover, and said:

"Children!"

Both men glared at her and perhaps it was this that prompted a laugh from the stranger.

Raphael looked at the younger man who had a surprised look in his eyes as if he himself didn't expect he could laugh. As if he had forgot what laughter was.

And Raphael just couldn't stop wondering about that, too.

The rest of the conversation went an easy way with Dan and Raphael trying to behave, Vanessa and Samantha making sure they did, with Ray, Dan's younger brother, trying to not amuse himself on his brother's account, and with the stranger watching all this with a unreadable smile.

"I'd suggest you go to sleep," the stranger said when Ray could no longer hide his yawn. Raphael nodded.

"I take the first watch," the younger man went on with a tone to his voice that made any discussion impossible and somehow reminded Raphael of a general giving orders. "And the last one in the morning, so–"

He cut off mid-word, his eyes growing intense as he focused on the line of trees to his left. As if he was able to look behind them.

Then the man suddenly broke into motion. He seized Raphael by his lower arm and practically threw him into the small circle of light the fire cast.

"To the fire!" he shouted, running himself and drawing his weapon as he did.

They had only a second or two to get to the fire before the night around them burst into a screeching, winged nightmare.

TBC…


	8. Legend Eight

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Eight**

'Moon's Spirit' was a fast schooner, created for navigating through tiny fjords and shallow waters with equal easiness or so Gerald had been told by William Radgast, the captain who was obviously as proud of his ship as if it were flesh of his flesh. 'The fastest ship on Morgot,' he'd said. Gerald presumed, she was indeed, and thus perfectly suited for the kind of business Gerald knew the captain was running.

"Too bad, you know, Felizia, my navigator, is giving birth to a child right now," the captain was telling him now, quite succeeding at dropping his marine accent. Gerald smiled a cold smile of satisfaction. "Damn her for that!" the man went on. "You understand, there's no other navigator available and I've to drop the passage tonight."

Gerald frowned in annoyance. If what he'd heard in one of the haven's numerous taverns this afternoon was even half-true, the captain would have to face more than simply an unpleasant conversation with the docks inspector right in the morning. Perhaps he just didn't know that he needed to leave Morgot as soon as possible. Gerald wondered if he should point it out to the man. Then he reconsidered. Perhaps he would need that bit of knowledge later.

Then again, to sail the Serpent at night without an experienced navigator was in fact nothing short of suicide. As Gerald could tell from a certain stormy experience when they were on their way to Mount Shaitan. How fortunate that Damien had turned out to be such a quick learner back then. He ignored the feeling surging through his heart at that, and focused on his anger instead.

"As I said, I need a passage to Kale. Or Seth or Aramanth, that doesn't matter," Gerald repeated patiently. Though his patience was rapidly running thin.

"And as _I_ said," the captain made, obviously growing angry, too, "that would be difficult. Since there no more faeborn Healing it'll take time for Felizia to feel better. You have to wait."

That was it! No one dared tell him what he should do! No one except ... someone who no longer was on Erna…

"My abilities should make a crossing possible," Gerald said evenly, hiding his anger. However, his statement seemed to finally stun Radgast into silence.

"I know nearly every navigator by his or her name in each port of the Serpent," the captain said, voice heavily laced with distrust. "Who the trice-damned Hell are you?"

Gerald decided it was time for more resolute means.

"I can't wait until tomorrow," he said, interrupting whatever the captain was considering doing or saying now, "and neither can you if your business is of the kind I suppose it to be." He added a knowing smirk, enjoying how the captain's face had gone ashen. "I don't care what else this vessel is transporting nor do I have any interest in informing the local inspectors about," he filled his voice with malice. "I think crossing the Serpent tonight could turn out to be both necessary and profitable for you." Radgast looked shocked at that. "You should decide quickly," Gerald didn't urge, letting the stupid man draw his own conclusions. "The tide is turning right now."

William Radgast seemed to think hard before he finally nodded. "Alright," he said, his eyes full of poorly hidden dread. "To Seth, then." He shrugged, as if coming to the conclusion this his passenger was too dangerous to argue with, and walked back to his cabin.

One hour later they were on their way, the waters of the Serpent dark and treacherous between them and their purpose. Coreset painted the skies with various shades of orange, gold and yellow, and the earth-fae lit everything with its crystal blue glowing. The tide was running strong tonight, strong enough to make a landing easier. He'd managed to lead them through Morgot's dangerous riffs though not as effortlessly as he'd thought. The minus of a strong tide was the water's speed when it changed direction and then you had to navigate very carefully. He had to concentrate hard until they finally reached deep waters.

The fae currents shifted slightly at the edge of his sight, snapping him abruptly back to reality. He focused his attention. They were still there, telling of presences and absences, of tendencies and odds and probabilities. _That's what it's all about,_ he thought bitterly. _Probabilities…_

His thoughts circled around that in a spiral that led him down and down. Maybe the probabilities back then would have been different if he hadn't go to the Patriarch. He had made a Divining at this twice but… For the first time in either of his lives he considered the possibility of having made a mistake back then. He could have misinterpreted the results of those Divinings. The chances for that were approximately zero but still… Maybe they would have managed to overthrow Calesta without the stiff and conservative Church Head's help. Maybe then Damien would have had a place to go to and wouldn't have felt lonely and thus wouldn't have committed suicide? Or maybe if they hadn't gone to the Keep… They surely wouldn't have met Andrys and none of the later events would have happened. Damien would still have had the Church. He would be _alive_…

When did he start care, he asked himself. When on their journey the hatred he first had felt for the infuriatingly stubborn priest had been replaced by something else? Maybe it'd begun that fateful night on Morgot when they'd been attacked by the Dark Ones. Even that early on their mission, Damien's courage had impressed him beyond words. Later on, the steadfastness of Damien's faith had showed him there was still something good in the world, something he could still believe in. He'd felt proud of having created such a powerful thing as the Church of Unification and at the same time had envied Damien his faith – a faith he himself couldn't share wholly, not after all he'd seen and done.

And still, that look of absolute loathing and abhorrence in Damien's eyes when the priest had learned the Hunter's true name – well, had it pleased him? Or had it _hurt_? Maybe both, he thought. He didn't remember when the layers of corruption that shielded him from every even so tiny human feeling for so long had started to fade. Maybe it was after they'd crossed the Canopy, after that link he'd established between them. Maybe it was then when, feeding on Damien's fears, he couldn't help but learn the pureness and humanity of the priest's soul, too. He'd been drawn to this purity as inevitably as a moth to a candle flame. Was it then, he asked himself, when his feelings started to change even more? Was it after Damien rescued him from the Master of Lema's fire? Had he felt more than thankfulness back then already, even that early?

He remembered how reluctant he'd been to let Damien go alone even if he hadn't let it show. And when the Wards hadn't reacted as quickly as he wanted them to he'd almost run into the Citadel himself. He remembered those moments when Damien's pain had flooded his own being, when he'd wanted noting more than to kill the mad sorceress himself for what she'd done to his friend. He remembered his own helpless rage and something else, something that had made him rush over, right into the so very instable, pitch black tunnels under the Citadel, to where he'd felt Damien's presence. He remembered the rush of relief when he'd felt live pulsing steadily under his fingers on the side of the other's neck.

He closed his eyes reliving that memory again. He'd promised to protect the other, and had failed so miserably, and Damien had never blamed it on him. So forgiving…

Or had it been later, onboard of the 'Golden Glory'? When there had been nothing but the ocean's endless waves and those moments of conversation when they'd struggled for a common ground? When having an enemy in common wasn't enough? Was it then when he'd felt that overwhelming need for the first time – to connect again with the world of the living? It must have happened somewhere in between, he decided. Because when they faced the Undying Prince he'd felt so immensely guilty for his deception. Even if there hadn't been another chance, even if they would have failed otherwise… It had hurt so much to repay Damien's trust with a lie. And even that Damien had forgiven.

Gerald clenched his hands around the railing. All of a sudden, he remembered another crossing when, hunted by Calesta, they'd had to face that storm. It was then when he'd begun to understand…

He closed his eyes. The burning in them was nothing in comparison to the pain in his heart.

His hands loosened their hold on the cool metal of the railing. The Serpent's waters lay, deep and tempting, below.

TBC…


	9. Legend Nine

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Nine**

Doctor Elisa Denari sighed heavily. Her shift was almost over. All she had to do was checking on her patients one last time before she could finally, _finally_ go home. She opened the door to the first room to the left.

The only patient here was a man of about twenty-five, if that. He'd been brought four days ago by a group of tourists who all looked as if they'd just escaped a nightmare. Which, as they'd told her later, was exactly what they had. She sighed again. Erna was still far from being safe, even if the fae no longer responded to humans' fears. There were still enough of demonlings out there to make getting rid of them a many-generations work.

She frowned as she looked down at her patient. The handsome face was still pale due to blood loss but not as pale as back then, those four days ago. Little wonder if you got a lot of cuts across various parts of your body. Add to that a minor head injury and a nice little infection and you have someone unconscious for days. Well, the infection was already ebbing due to a generous usage of antibiotics, and most of the cuts, though varying in size and depth, were nothing of real importance. The worst was a cut across the man's ribs but that, too, had already started to heal. The head injury had been more difficult to get by but they managed that as well. So, the young man should be awaking anytime soon. He would have already –and hadn't been unconscious for that long at all– if she still could use the fae.

Elisa was an Adept and had worked as a Healer before the Second Sacrifice had robbed her of her powers. And now she was reduced to her profound knowledge on non fae-based healing methods. As were all Healers, Adept or not. She felt silent fury rising inside her again when she thought of that. Stupid men! Did anyone of them ever give it a thought what taming the fae would mean to all those Workers who used it to Heal? To all the Healers and nurses and mid-wives? Or what it would mean for all the buildings which stability based upon quake-Wards? She'd treated too much victims of crumbling houses already. In last consequence, sealing the fae against human influence probably meant the end of civilization as it was. _Welcome to the Middle Ages,_ she thought angrily. She used –and had faith in– technology in her work but she couldn't force herself to believe technology could evolve rapidly enough to sufficiently replace the fae. When would technology be able to repair a broken bone in a few minutes? When would technology supply humanity with methods to seal a cut without so much as a scar in almost no time? When would technology develop techniques to support open heart surgery?

She shook her head. Such thoughts changed nothing. What was done, couldn't be undone. She concentrated on her patient again and her frown deepened. Why wouldn't he wake up?

As if her thoughts had willed him into that, his thick dark brown lashes fluttered once. _Poor man,_ Elisa thought, _his head will feel like splitting for a while_. To open his eyes seemed to be an effort the man was unsure if it was worth trying.

She smiled.

"Good evening," she said.

The man opened his eyes, and Elisa saw they were the color of green jade. Apparently the man had decided being awake was indeed worth the effort of waking up. Though for all it seemed it had taken almost more than he had to ascend from the unconsciousness.

He blinked a few times, undoubtedly chasing away the layers of fatigue. Then his eyes focused. Elisa used that moment to check his pupils that, thankfully, were of the same size, indicating that there was no swelling to the brain matter due to the contusion. _Good,_ she thought and allowed herself a satisfied smile.

"Where am I?" The man's voice was rough with days of disuse and he sounded as if he wasn't sure whether it wouldn't fail.

"'Central Hospital' in Sattin," she explained friendly.

"How did I get here?"

"A group of tourists brought you, all of them in bad shape though not as half as bad the shape you were in."

The man sighed, obviously relieved. "So it worked out, then."

"If you're relating to your fight against a horde of demonlings that outnumbered your party trice if not more, then well, I think it worked out," Elisa said sternly. "What almost _didn't_ work out is you surviving that fight!"

Then she stopped. Her patient was … grinning? She watched the man take in the sterile white-painted ceiling every room in every hospital had and then his eyes dropped to the equally white and disinfected bedding.

He shook his head as if in an attempt to clear his thoughts and winced.

"I remember being wounded in that fight," he said then. "I don't remember getting here."

"That's because you were unconscious back then," Elisa said, with emphasis.

"So I will retain no ill effects of that head injury?" the man asked.

"No. But you should consider yourself fortunate. That contusion could have been much worse – if what the tourists had told how you got it is true."

The man waved it off. "How long did I…?"

"Four days. And it's close to a miracle that you'd awoken at all. Your head injury, added to the blood loss and all the cuts… You're stubborn, you know?" she said.

"That's been said," he grinned again. "What else injuries did I get beside the cuts I can map? Any internal damage?"

"Again, no. And again, you're very lucky," Elisa felt she had to point out. "Are you a Healer yourself?" Something about the way how he'd asked…

"Used to be," the man answered absentmindedly and then froze, as if in pain or realizing something.

"Pain?" Elisa asked concernedly.

The man's body was rigid, and his face bore an expression as if he waited for something terrible to happen. Whatever it was, Elisa supposed it hadn't because her patient relaxed, exhaustion obviously overwhelming him.

Not that he would let that stop him. That very stubborn look reappeared on his face, and there was something else behind that, something like heart felt relief. Well, Elisa thought, the sheer fact of him being alive after a fight like that was indeed reason enough to be relieved.

"I have to go," he said and rose to his elbows.

"You're going nowhere," Elisa said with all authority of a Healer she could muster. "You'll collapse after five steps!"

"We'll see," the man said stubbornly, and carefully, got to his feet.

He looked like he needed one second or two for the room to stop spinning around, therefore Elisa knew his body must have renewed most of the blood lost otherwise he would have needed probably much more. His legs only slightly shaking, he gritted his teeth and managed to let go of the frame and stand without support.

Elisa raised a skeptical brow.

The man grinned faintly again and took a step forward. "One," he counted. "Two. Three." A deep breath. "Four. Five." At that he turned to Elisa and give her a triumphant smile. "Six."

"Wait!" Elisa exclaimed angrily. "You can't leave right now!"

"Why not?" That came somewhat strained, and Elisa grinned herself.

"That's why. I know your stubborn warrior breed, all of you'd rather die than confess the possibility of being exhausted!"

The man burst into a violent fit of laughter.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Elisa warned belatedly.

Then he coughed and gripped his midsection, probably literally painfully reminded of his injuries. "Agree with you completely," he finally managed with a lopsided grin. "On both statements."

"I told you that much!" Elisa couldn't help but smile widely in triumph.

"Though I'm not as stubborn as … a friend of mine."

Elisa could tell there was so much more behind the words. She was used to sense pain in her patients.

"I'd suggest you go to sleep. Erna would still be here tomorrow. Or do you have some imperative business to attend to?"

The green eyes instantly went sad and for a moment so brief it was nearly beyond perception, they were open windows to a pain that had nothing to do with a hurting body.

Elisa's heart clenched in sympathy.

"No," the young man said almost inaudibly, eyes unreadable again, "no, I don't."

* * *

Next morning, after a discussion whether or not his condition would go well with horse riding –which Elisa lost, wondering a lot at his eloquence in the process–, she handed an envelope over to that impossible patient of hers, left by the tourists for him. There was no letter in it, she would have sensed it if there were one. Instead, it felt like small pieces of paper in there, obviously banknotes. Made sense, that. Because one of the first questions she'd been asked five days ago was where to find the bank. She didn't dwell on it, he'd saved those stupid tourists' lives, after all.

Now how does a Healer become that good at rhetoric, she mused absentmindedly instead. There was something she just knew she should remember, something about Healers who were not only that but she couldn't figure it out for dear life right now.

"For me?" he asked, looking down at the item in question.

In irregular capitals one word was written on it. _Legend_. There wasn't any name.

Elisa frowned at that. Could that be? Could that young man with kind green eyes be the one hunting demonlings up and down the road north? Many travelers were spreading that legend lately…

"Who else," she said, waiting curiously for his reaction.

He frowned, too, at the addressing but nothing more and Elisa felt disappointed and intrigued at same time. No way he wasn't aware of his popularity and he didn't deny it but… It was almost as if he didn't seek popularity at all and at the same time Elisa knew he could have prevented those rumors to spread. Odd, that.

He put the envelope into one of his pockets without opening it.

"If you were a Healer once you're maybe interested in being one again?" she asked. She would have asked him yesterday had he been less tired. The hospital was in desperate need of qualified staff. Most of those who'd been Adepts coped badly with the loss of their powers and thus had left some time ago.

"You offering me a job?" For the briefest of moments there was a tiny bit of regret in those jade green eyes.

"Yes," Elisa nodded.

The regret in the stranger's eyes deepened. "I'm sorry, I can't do that," he said softly.

"Why?" Elisa asked simply. He must know he was suited for the job. Most of the injuries treated in Sattin were acquired in fights.

"I'm not going to deny that the perspective of a constant job without too much adventure does tempt me at this period of my life and working once again as a Healer would surely be nice but I'm … just not ready yet."

Elisa didn't think that was what he'd first intended to say. After a few seconds of silence she understood he wouldn't add more.

"Be careful," she said, as if he was one of her teenage nephews.

"Thank you," he answered, picking up his saddle bags.

She watched him all the way to the doors, noting all the reasons why he shouldn't be leaving in his step and posture.

"I wish for you to find whatever you're searching for."

_TBC…_


	10. Legend Ten

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Ten**

When the man once named Gerald Tarrant entered the Blue Rose Hotel in Yamas, he began to doubt if it was a good idea to come here in the first place. Driven by both his dreams and his need for them to stop the thought of visiting the place where Damien had died had felt right. He'd thought perhaps the dreams would end then. He didn't think it would affect him that much.

Firmly, he reined in his emotions and crossed the room to the large desk behind which a short, fat man sat - from that part superior, part slimy look on his face the owner himself.

Gerald hid his disgust carefully. That excuse of a man still could turn out useful.

"Do you have rooms?" he inquired.

The man looked him over, noted the expensiveness of Geralds clothes and something else it seemed, and the expression on his pumpkin-like face grew even more slimy.

"Youre not him," the man murmured almost under his breath, and added aloud: "Of course, of course, Mer...?"

"Da Silva," Gerald filled in.

"...da Silva, what a well-sounding name," the owner went on.

Gerald fought down the urge to strangle the man, frowning slightly instead.

"I want the one where the suicide happened," he said coldly.

"What? No one wants this room!"

"I'm interested in local legends," he explained with mentally gritted teeth, putting as much ice as he could into his tone and a heavy coin onto the desk.

Finally, the owner seemed to get the hint.

"Oh, a secretive one, are you? Alright, not my business, I understand, well, should be a problem of yours when you get scared in that room." The man turned around to the board with the keys and thus missed Gerald's icy glare.

"By the way, how did the man die?" he asked as casually as possible, drawing at the strength of his anger for being able to stand the answer. "Pierced his heart?"

"What? Why no, opened his carotid artery, that for sure, he did, and bled to death," the owner answered.

Gerald held his hands steady and his expression mildly curious as he took the keys. He didnt give in when he walked the stairs, straining his emotional self-control, though each step seemed more difficult. He could do it. He had to.

It was when it hit him. He almost froze quite literally in mid-movement under the impact of recognition. The walls were painted exactly the pale shade of an egg's shell he remembered all too clearly from his endless nightmares. The pictures were also as ordinary as he remembered. He fisted his hands to keep them from shaking. The dull pain when his nails bit his palms was nothing in comparison to the burning ache in his heart.

Concentrating on step after shaky step, he managed to reach the floor in question without stumbling or otherwise showing his distress. When he saw the door he almost flinched. Again, exactly like in his dreams. He turned the key, mentally chiding himself for the irrational fear and hope that he could see the rest of his nightmare, perhaps even change it...

Of course, nothing of the sort happened.

The room had been cleaned many times over, the wooden floor scrubbed and polished until it almost shone. There was a plain bed with a small bed-side table, a desk with a chair, a wardrobe, and the door to the bathroom. No carpets, he noticed. They probably werent able to replace that.

He didn't remember entering but the door made a soft "Click" behind him, telling him that yes, he did enter. Almost without looking, he locked it.

The late afternoons sun sent beams of white through the window, not in the slightest diminished by plain cotton curtains, and Gerald felt relieved at another difference from his nightmares.

He found his bags already set near the wardrobe. The hotel boy was surely much faster.

When he turned to the bed again, a tiny flash of light under it caught his eye. Curious, he went to the bed and knelt beside it. Reaching out, he tried to get hold on whatever it was but failed. Only when hed lowered himself to the floor, was he able to stretch just that bit more and close his fingers around what seemed to be a small metal item. He managed to get it out of the deep fissure in the wooden floor where it had stuck -which probably explained why it hadnt been discovered earlier-, pulled himself carefully back, and sat on the bed. Then he took a look at the item.

And his heart almost stopped in his chest.

Sharp claws of pain and grief cut deep into it as he stared unseeingly at the piece of metal in his hand.

He knew it, oh, One God, he knew it, how could he not? Hed _made_ it.

It was one of the amulets he'd given Damien back then at the Citadel of Storms, when the priest had walked into it all alone to face the mad sorceress. It had held only little power back then and held none now but he still could See a trace of his own Working on it.

At the realization what that meant he felt a burning in his eyes.

There was no way this could have lasted through their journeys among Damiens other possessions without the ex-priest knowing. That meant Damien had saved it and had carried it with him all the time...

Finally, a silent sob escaped Geralds lips. He stared at the item in his palm, imagining Damien holding it and that was when the tears started flowing.

He curled up on the bed, clutching the tiny pendant in his hand and pretending not to cry.

* * *

The next morning he stood silently in front of Damien Vryce's grave. Theyd buried him on the Church's main graveyard, with all his titles and grades though he'd quit. _Damien Kilcannon Vryce, Reverend of the __Church__ of __Unification__, Knight of the Golden Flame, Companion of the Earthstar Ascendant_. Perhaps they didn't know that fact here, so far away from Jaggonath, or someone did understand what Damiens calling to priesthood had meant to him. Perhaps they'd finally understood what they -all of them- owed that special man.

The claws were back around his heart, mercilessly tearing it to pieces. Damien had always seemed being someone who'd fight till the bitter end - which in fact was exactly what he'd done. The strongest person Gerald had ever met... He'd found himself relying on that strength when his own left him - as it had done many times through their journey. Damien had given it willingly, without hesitation, without reluctance each time Gerald had needed it. He remembered gentle words and understanding in those warm hazel eyes, strong arms that carried him out of danger, a sense of connection far beyond their bond...

He shook his head, closed his eyes for a second or two, and willed the lump in his throat to dissolve. It wouldn't do to get a hysteric fit right here, would it?

What on Erna did he think he knew about that man? That strength hed always admired had to be based upon something. He didn't want to imagine how Damien must have felt without his abilities, without a purpose... It must be similar to what he himself had felt but he himself still had so much to do, there was still so much to learn. And also to teach since he was an expert on Terran science.

Damien on the other hand... He'd lost nearly everything so how must he have felt? Gerald asked himself. Oh why did he walk away, on that damned pass? Had he stayed, maybe he could have found something... He'd owed that to his friend, he realized. Damien had saved his life at countless occasions, he'd gone into _Hell_ for him and beyond. And more than that. The priest had saved his soul. Only by now -far too late- it occurred to him that Damien had sacrificed his own soul to do so. _And I,_ he thought with fury, _the selfish bastard that I am, I left him there alone with stupid people no one of them could ever understand..._ A wave of regret, guilt and self-condemn rushed over him. What a fool he had been. _Oh, Damien,_ he thought. _Youd forgiven me so much. Could you forgive me that, too?_

What did he know how Damien had felt? At this that lump appeared again in his throat, and this time it refused to vanish despite his efforts. Again, guilt and a soul deep pain he'd never experienced before clenched his heart in a tight grip.

No, his own feelings were not that difficult to interpret now, not any more. With the perfect clarity of hindsight he realized that he had first to lose everything to understand what in all the world he'd valued most. He'd lied to himself all the time by finding reasons to justify his actions instead of facing his emotions. So when did it happen? When had he stopped to inwardly call him 'Vryce' and started to think of him as 'Damien'? Was it when they crossed the ocean? Or was it later, after defying the Undying Prince? Oh, and how much had Gerald hated himself for lying to his friend, how much had he wished to tell him the truth...

And oh, how understanding Damien had been, how kind, how forgiving... On their journey back, how easily had he forgiven that deception... How was it possible such a kind soul existed? Was it then when Gerald had realized how much his feelings had grown stronger during that suicide mission? After all, how could they not, after all that Damien had done for him? Was it then he'd begun to lie to himself instead of admitting a simple truth? And Damien... Damien usually had looked at him with those beautiful, warm eyes, and noted his distress, and said something infuriating just so to distract him. And there were comforting words, too, and gentle, and maybe it had been Damien's sincere concern for him, for the man Gerald still was, not for the Prophet or the Adept or the Neocount, but the person behind all that that somehow reached and sparked his humanity?

Oh Damien...

He pressed two fingers to his lips and touched them lightly to the engraved characters that spelled out the name of his last and only love.

_TBC..._


	11. Legend Eleven

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Eleven**

His church was small, Reverend Patrick Marrey thought on his way to the main room. It didn't matter that much to him now that he was going on fifty and knew that. It _had_ mattered some long time ago when he'd first come to Sattin back then. He'd been an ambitious one, barely having earned his priest's robes, and thought of a great start here and what he could do and move.

Somewhere in between _then_ and _now_ he'd realized most of populace of Sattin worshipped other gods and didn't care in the slightest about the One God. He'd been determined to change that back then, had tried many times and failed just as many. He'd lacked understanding in the ways of human thinking back then, hadn't understand the most would choose an easy religion where you got something in return for all your praying. It had took a long time for him to accept he wasn't just the kind of person who could influence minds of many, like the priests of the Revival had been. He remembered just how much and how fiercely he'd envied them for their sheer will and devotion that could convert the most atheistic of minds into that of a believer. When he'd finally accepted it he'd been surprised at just how much pressure had left him at that. He hadn't realized how he'd been neglecting his duties due to his ambitions.

He sighed softly. It was then that his work became more a calling and not a means to his ambitions. He had his church. But nothing more. He never married, first trying to push his career and then trying to make up for that. Where did his life go? he asked himself sadly. And now he was too old...

Walking unhurriedly down the corridor that connected his rooms to the church, he suddenly saw a bright light in the main room where there should have been a dim twilight of a few candles left for the night.

No chance that lazy boy of an acolyte was up this early in the morning. At that thought he grinned sarcastically but his mirth vanished as quickly as itd come.

He'd never been a courageous person but he couldn't call himself a complete coward either.

He stepped into the atrium and couldn't help but stare.

Someone had lit the candles required for the Morning Mass already and had covered the alter in the proper way and with the right cloth.

Patrick squinted his eyes which he already needed reading glasses for, and finally was able to make out a silhouette kneeling before the altar. He released a deep breath in relief and moved a little closer, already intending to call out to that early visitor.

Yet, he never did.

He couldn't tell what it was about the man before the alter that stopped him. It wasn't certainly about the man's strong, lean frame or the way he was kneeling though that caught his attention, too, reminding him of something he couldn't quite put a finger on. It wasn't about the way how his lips moved in what was obviously a prayer. It was, maybe, the expression on the youthful face, so bare of any emotion it almost seemed made of cold marble. It was an expression of someone well schooled to hide his true emotions so that even here, where the man must think himself alone, he didn't allow anything slip through his facade.

Patrick recognized that expression. It was the same he himself sometimes would wear when the pain of his rheumatic joints was nearly killing him and he would still put on his robes and go down to the altar and somehow made it through the Morning Mass, and through the Evening Rites, and through the late night ceremony of Thanks that needed to be offered.

He strained his thankfully still sharp ears to catch a word of what the other man was saying but the man was whispering very softly and nothing of it reached his ears.

So he stepped in closer to see the praying man was young, barely older than twenty-five. Most probably less. His hair seemed auburn and most likely reached down to his shoulders when untied. Now that head bowed a little more, and then, suddenly and very, very quickly, the young man rose to his feet, turning to face Patrick in the process.

The speed of that movement finally rang a bell in Patrick's memory. Only Knights of the Order of the Golden Flame knelt like that, only on one knee, with hands folded just like that.

"Thank you for not interrupting my prayer," the young man spoke in the meantime, his tone warm. His eyes were the color of green jade and held a kindness Patrick never had seen anywhere before. A light shone from those eyes, bright, and warm, and somehow, knowing. No, not that young, not with eyes like these.

And here, that until then very ordinary morning, for the first and the last time in his life Patrick met a True Priest, equal to those first ones who'd had nothing but their faith and their force of personality to bring a new faith to the world. There was something about that man that caused people to follow wherever he decided to lead them.

"You are a priest," Patrick stated, politeness fleeing him, chased away by his curiosity in seconds.

_"Was_," the young man answered, slightly inclining his head. "Before the Second Sacrifice. I apologize for using your church in a way I can no longer lay claim to."

"Why did you leave?" Patrick asked, shrugging off the apology. His intuition told him there was a tale behind this.

The young man smiled a tiny smile that wasn't quite sad but not full of joy either.

So the tale wasnt a happy one, Patrick concluded.

"Shift of priority," the not-so-young man said then, and there was no trace of regret in his voice, and Patrick wondered what could more important than their faith.

The young man seemed to sense his thoughts.

"Faith isnt everything," he said. "In my case, well... I could say... life got in the way. Or more correctly, death." His eyes were distant, looking somewhere far away.

And then the young man smiled again, and this time it was full of great relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"There are many ways to serve the One God," he added, and turned away, and walked out, leaving Patrick to his own thoughts and ways to serve their God.

Patrick sighed, with renewed faith, and then, he smiled brilliantly at the ceiling.

Who said almost fifty was too late to get a life?

_TBC..._


	12. Legend Twelve

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Twelve**

He was on his way back to his hotel, far enough of Jaggonath's always crowded, deafening-loud city center. It was early in the morning, and only few shops had already opened. No people were to be seen at all. He'd spent the night no, not in a bar for a change, trying to fill that hole in his chest that had replaced his heart with alcohol, but in the city library. He had been researching old myths about nameless travelers, trying to solve the mystery he'd heard of in each town on his way back. Gerald had talked to that woman in Sheva, Joanna Something, and to other dae and inn owners down the road and to that journalist, Larissa What-was-her-name as well. Their tales were pretty much the same: a man appearing out of nowhere to help and disappearing again when his help was no longer needed. 'As if something perfect is now lost to the world', that woman Larissa had said about the man. And Raphael Cerys, a tourist whose party had been also rescued by the mysterious man, had described his eyes as 'so distant no serenity could reach them'. _Never seen a crush of more epic proportions,_ Gerald thought now, smiling despite his heavy heart. And then there was something the very worldly Dr. Denari had remarked about the stranger searching for something… Well, as was he. Only that for Gerald his own search was to dull the pain in his heart.

The librarian, a kind old woman –if he didn't mistreat her books, that is,– , had found him fallen asleep over a pile of books and thrown him out, giving him a strict order not to come again till he'd gotten enough sleep. He was working hard since he'd found out that work was a much better drug than alcohol. Back from Yamas, he remembered having drunk heavily through one night or other before the futility of such attempts had finally occurred to him. Waking up with a bad hung over the next morning had been indeed a new experience for him since he'd never allowed himself to lose control like this before. It was back then that he'd discovered it didn't matter to him whether or not he lost control anymore until his work had offered him another method of keeping the world out.

He'd found out he _could_ force himself to forget the fact of Damien's death for a while if he got completely absorbed by his studies. Then he could convince himself that his friend was still alive, somewhere out there and perhaps getting himself into trouble. If he tried, he almost could believe it. The fact that indeed he'd seen Damien's grave had changed nothing. It was that tiny spark of disbelief that continued to prevent him from introducing himself to the very next stranger with his true name and thus put an end to his existence.

He didn't look up while walking and simply let his feet find the way. Now he realized they had taken him to one of the old northern districts. A weapon shop nearby caught his eye. 'Weapons of all kind' the bright marquee run. Someone stood in front of it, obviously regarding the goods behind a thick glass, the reins of a horse in a half-gloved hand. Gerald came to a halt in the shadows on the opposite site and watched. He couldn't tell what caused him to do so, only that it felt as if there was a faint tugging at his soul.

The person was a tall slender man with shoulder long auburn hair. For Gerald only saw his back from where he stood he couldn't tell more about the other man's appearance. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, his frame of a kind of power beyond that. He wore practical, not expensive but well-made clothes, pants of soft brown leather and a beige-colored cotton shirt. His riding boots were covered with dust and so was the hem of his dark woolen cloak. He'd thrown it back over a shoulder where a bag was hanging that looked much like its owner knew very well how to travel. As the man leaned a bit forward to study the swords, his cloak swing more aside and a pistol on a leather belt could be seen. Then he straightened again and stood motionlessly for a moment as if considering entering the shop.

Wait a minute ... a tall man with auburn hair. Wasn't that how they'd described that mysterious stranger in the North?

The stranger seemed to nod to himself and entered the shop.

And the man once called Gerald Tarrant stood completely perplexed for a moment, then crossed the street and headed for the shop.

* * *

Gerald entered the store. The walls showed various kinds of weapons and arms from beginning of Ernan history to current developments. The man stood in front of a glass case with apparently old swords.

"Good morning, Mer," the shop assistant said, giving him a welcoming if somewhat overslept-appearing nod. "If you don't mind to wait for a minute…"

The man didn't react at all, seemingly lost in his examination.

Gerald's eyes fixed on that tall, slender shape –at the moment the other held a heavy broad blade in his right–, and he dismissively waved his hand at the assistant, striding over to other glass cases that lined the opposite wall, containing diverse knifes and daggers. There he put his hands on the edge of the case next to him and turned halfway, not even pretending to regard the blades. His attention never left _him_.

Just now the other completed a complex parrying gesture on an imagined opponent that told of years of practice.

"Too massive for me," he said, sounding clearly disappointed and returned the sword expertly, hilt forward, to the assistant. "If you could show me this one?" he asked, pointing somewhere to his left.

For a couple of minutes Gerald couldn't do anything but watch. The features of his face still hidden in shadows, the other man stood there with a sword in his hand, perfectly in balance, feet as steady as if anchored, prepared to fight. His movements were those of a skilled warrior – flowing and of that particular elegance only achieved by years of training and experience. Gerald couldn't define it precisely, but there was something fleeting, almost undetectable about them that seemed oddly familiar to him. The man definitely knew the matter – Gerald could tell from his every question, from the way he hold every single blade, the well shaped muscles of his arm instinctively adapting to the weight, to how the line of his shoulders changed very sligthly to adjust to each sword. It was more a hint of a feeling than an impression, causing a strange resonance within his mind. Why not at last? His ordered, organized mind immediately started to analyze the subject. He was a consummate fighter himself and had already spent almost three years traveling in company of an excellent sword fighter. He'd never said so out loud, but Damien had been more than worthy of his champion grade in the Order. _…And now it's far too late, _he thought. To think Damien's name hurt more than everything that had been done to him back in Hell… Consequently, it wasn't that strange at all that gestures of a warrior reminded him of an other. The way the other man ran his slender fingers along the cool metal, checking its quality…

Unable of thinking straight away, occupied with his observation, Gerald acted instinctively.

* * *

"I would like to take a closer look at this springbolt," he said to the shop assistant who hurried past him to put down more swords from the walls and to bring them to the other man, then he gripped the mentioned piece of weaponry from its place and stepped closer.

At that the man turned to him so fast it seemed he'd been waiting for that very moment to come, and Gerald froze in mid-movement, nearly dropping the weapon. The moment stretched out to what seemed to be an entire eternity until the other finally moved, tilting his head slightly. The gesture also seemed familiar, somehow. The other's eyes still in shadows so he couldn't tell their color the man seemed to examine whatever he was looking at intensively, as if comparing it with something else. That gave Gerald the opportunity to regard his face more intently.

He was young –no more than twenty-five, possibly younger– and handsome, no, scratch that, beautiful. Simply breathtaking. Smooth, soft skin of a warm deep gold, much lighter than his own olive hue. Waves of vividly auburn, shoulder-long hair, shining with red gold highlights where the light of the sun and the Core touched it, were tied to a ponytail on the back of his neck. Some strands had escaped the ribbon meant to fasten them and were now falling around a face with perfectly shaped features. Nothing in his behavior told Gerald the other was aware of his own beauty. Tall, perfectly muscled, he took Gerald's breath away. Without thinking anymore, he took two steps across the room, feeling himself as if being drawn to the other man by an invisible force far beyond every logical explanation.

"I wouldn't buy that springbolt if I were you," the man remarked suddenly after taking a short look of an expert at the weapon. A simple statement, not even a comment, his voice a rich tenor, steady, almost comforting...

Gerald had expected everything but that. "Why not?" he asked, hiding his confusion.

"That one is made in Yamas' old manufacture which had never been a good one," the other said by way of explanation. "Not the best wood for making springbolts or crossbows there, you know. If I might make a suggestion I would prefer that one. Solid Western quality from the other side of the Dividers." He pointed at a well-made-looking if doubtless second-handed one that hung on the wall at his right. Gerald cast a glance at the weapon just to forget it completely the very next second as the possible implications of the other man's words sank in.

"So you're from Yamas, then?" he asked hoarsely, quite successfully trying to clear his throat.

"Yes," the other said lightly. Then, less lightly. "I was born in there."

"I visited that town once, it seemed to be nasty – little wonder, that near to the Forest," Gerald said, holding his voice even, clearly remembering his passage north.

"Yamas has changed, now with the Forest burning," the other man replied. "Too many tourists and those who make money of tourism."

"So it's still burning?" he asked causally.

The stranger nodded. "And it will keep burning for months, I suppose. Why?"

"As a loremaster I'm always interested in news and information."

For a brief moment the other man looked surprised –which was odd, Gerald thought– before his expression changed and he nodded again more to herself. "Are you from nearby the Forest as well?" he asked interestedly.

His thoughts racing, Gerald, again, managed to keep his face emotionless only by long years of exercise. The conversation proceeded not the way he'd expected.

"Yes, one could say so," he answered as calmly as possible. To discuss that subject wasn't a good idea at all. Having no chance to consider his options, he took the first on his mind. Maybe that man could tell…? Maybe he'd been there as… maybe he knew something about Damien? After arriving at Yamas Gerald hadn't dared proceeding investigations beyond the simple curiosity of a tourist. And the answers he'd got hadn't been satisfying at all. This might be his last opportunity to find out more. "Were you in Yamas a month ago?" he asked, his heart aching with sharp, almost unbearable pain. Well, to discuss _that _wasn't any better an idea either.

"Yes," the stranger said. Nothing more.

Cautiously Gerald glanced at the other. Only one single step parted them, filled with tension he'd never experienced before. The other man didn't look at him. In fact he seemed to avoid meeting his eyes.

Then the minute detail of their conversation he'd failed to notice before hit him like the proverbial brick. _Solid western quality,_ he'd said. _Western…_

„Who are you? " he asked, forcing every bit of self-control into his voice to hold it even.

Finally, the young man looked at him out of beautiful jade-green eyes. Understanding, and strength and a special, well known sort of kindness shone in those eyes – and something different, more distant and hidden, more intensive and fragile at the same time. Oh, why seemed these eyes that familiar to him? Last time he'd seen those feelings in a gaze that had rested on him, it had been the eyes of the one man he ever loved in his lifetime… The man who saved –in every meaning of the word– not only his life but also his soul.

The young man smiled as warmly as the sun rays that played upon his skin, causing Gerald to wish to drown himself in this warmth. And once again there was something doubtless and indescribable familiar in his smile – the way how it lightened his face perhaps or how it melted away every wall Gerald had built around his heart or how it brought once again sense into his life. He'd never expected to see that smile again.

„I am who I am," the man said, still smiling. "Just like you."

The world under his feet seemed to give Gerald his own personal earthquake as everything finally settled itself into a pattern.

_TBC…_


	13. Legend Thirteen

**Collecting Legends**

by Shadowy Star

**Legend Thirteen**

Later on, neither would be able to say for exactly how long they'd stood there, looking at each other.

"Ahmm, Mers, are you intending to buy something?" the shop assistant asked, sounding very sleepy and very annoyed.

Gerald turned his head, fully intending to scowl at the poor boy but stopped when Damien burst out laughing.

"He's right, you know," the other man said then, still chuckling softly. "We probably should buy something."

Gerald smiled. He said 'we', didn't he? Oh, Damien… he thought lovingly and something of it must have showed in his eyes because Damien gave him the softest smile he'd ever seen on the other man's face. Or it was just that new, breathtakingly beautiful body. Not that the former body hadn't been beautiful. The Damien he was used to had been tall, too, but his strength had been much more obvious, much more massive back then, very attractive in its own way. Now, there was strength again – a strength wiry, streamlined and concealed, hidden beneath smooth skin, lurking behind green eyes. Those eyes… For a moment, Gerald felt a disorienting sensation as hazel brown overlaid jade green in his memory, and he blinked it away, looking into again green eyes. Those eyes, different and yet the same, so unmistakably Damien's beneath a thin layer of this beautiful stranger…

"You alright?" the not-stranger asked gently, his voice no longer deep like velvet caress but lighter, clearer, different again but just as strong, just as expressive, just as familiar.

Gerald smiled. Now, now he understood perfectly how the other man had felt back then at the Black Ridge Pass when confronted with Gerald's own new face.

"Yes, I am," he said though he really felt like singing. Damn it all to all Hells ‒and he usually didn't swear, at least not like that‒ only Damien could make him feel like this, and he smiled again, brighter yet. Only Damien could make him _feel_…

He looked at the other again, straightening. This time, he wasn't going to let him go. Not now, not ever.

"I must apologize for my lack of manners. I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name is Gerald da Silva."

Jade green eyes revealed a bit of shocked surprise and of answering pleasure.

"Nice to meet you and no apology needed. After all, I didn't introduce myself either. So, I'm Damien di Venari."

Gerald couldn't help smiling. It seemed both of them had retained as much from their pasts as was safe. "Pleased to meet you, too."

They left the shop after Damien –having examined intensively nearly every sword,– finally bought a fitting one, a lean blade with a decorative writing in one of old Terran languages even Gerald didn't recognize curving and flowing along its silvery surface.

Walking through the district's narrow streets side by side, Gerald couldn't help let his shoulder sometimes touch that of the other man, a tangible reminder that Damien was real, was _here_… Each time it prompted a smile from those lips and sometimes a casual touch for answer.

"Do you know a restaurant here where two hungry people can get more to eat than sandwiches at that early hour?" Damien asked finally with an easiness as if there was nothing extraordinary at the fact of him being here, at his, Gerald's side. As if they were nothing but two strangers with nothing in common, having met by accident as many strangers met and parted every single day. It couldn't have been that easy for the other man, he knew it first hand and again, Gerald had to acknowledge Damien's exceptional self-control. Even a Iezu had refused to play poker with him, after all.

"Yes," Gerald said, glad to change the topic, and stopped in his step. "I can truly recommend it."

The silence lengthened between them while he desperately tried not to stare at the other man.

"Shall we talk about weather?" Damien suggested dryly.

Gerald looked up at the skies. "Hmm… It isn't raining," he said then, trying not to sound like the love sick fool he was feeling he did.

At that Damien broke into laughter. "But it will, tonight," he stated softly and Gerald wondered for a second but forgot it again as Damien continued. "Maybe we should find a place to stay at until it stops?"

So simple a question, so easily spoken but oh so not simple at all…

Gerald gasped at the implications. "Do you mean that?" he answered with a question of his own.

* * *

Jade green eyes softened. He was obviously about to answer as an alien sound intruded the space around them. A scream, cut off sharply and followed by the horrible, nasty noise of something heavy hitting the ground.

Damien's posture shifted almost imperceptibly and Gerald adjusted his own. This, too, was familiar after all the time spent together, and his body remembered instantly. He felt a rush of adrenaline surging in his veins. Oh, yes, he had missed this.

Taking one swift step, Damien brought them back to back, drawing his weapons in the process. Gerald relaxed, involuntary, feeling safe somehow. Which was absurd, they were most probably outnumbered, if the scene manifesting before them was anything to go by. A few yards away, the street they'd been following crossed another. Two men were lying on the ground close to each other, blood pooling from beneath a head and a stomach respectively. A third corpse was lying a bit away, an undoubtedly knife wound to the neck. One other man, knife still in his hand, was bending over the stomach-wounded corpse. The other, sword at the ready, was already turning around to face them. Seeing as two of the dead had been city guards, easily recognized by their uniforms and well-made swords, Gerald knew there had to be more of the bandits somewhere close.

Yet, the sensation of Damien's back, warm and solid against his, the overwhelming awareness of Damien's body caused again the feeling of safety Gerald had always felt in the other man's company.

He shifted slightly, his hand hovering inches above his own pistol.

"I wouldn't do that," a rough voice said, and the very next moment six bandits stepped out of the surrounding shadows, their pistols aiming at the both of them.

"Nice clothes," the owner of the voice continued, pointing a gun at them and grinning cruelly.

"Rich boys," another agreed. "Pretty."

"Just give us your money," the third added. "And we'll let you live."

"After having some fun, y'know," the last one added while they were encircling their victims.

Gerald sensed Damien's body tensing the slightest bit, preparing to fight. Somehow he'd managed to shove himself between Gerald and two of the attackers without Gerald even noticing.

"I hate to quote from an unknown source, but sadly, it seems I have to: I wouldn't do that." Gerald suppressed the urge to laugh. He could feel the other man's wild grin and silently congratulated his other on the clever distraction.

One of the culprits laughed out loud but was rendered silent by his leader's furious glare.

_Disciplined,_ Gerald thought. _Damn. _With all that pistols aimed at them they probably would be dead long before they'd manage to fire their own. He considered to add something but didn't before turning his attention back to the outlaws. Anything he could say would only weaken Damien's precarious position.

"You're outnumbered," said the leader.

"So?" Gerald could hear an evil smirk in Damien's voice, and gave one of the bandits his trademark Hunter smile.

"Come near him and I'll kill you," Damien stated as calmly as if he was discussing weather.

"I can fight on my own," Gerald snapped icily while anger started to grow within his chest. But whatever he'd intended to add, died in his throat as the other man's words sank in.

"And who do you think you are? His bodyguard?" the leader spewed out on the ground.

"Find out," Damien suggested lightly but the undercurrents of danger were peaking through the calm surface.

Gerald's direct opponent didn't seem to like that. "Boss, maybe we should‒"

The leader turned his head a bit at the signs of disobedience, his pistol still aimed at Damien and that was when the Hell broke loose.

That brief moment had been enough for Damien to act and Gerald managed to draw his weapon before he was violently shoved aside as the other man shot the leader down, also drawing his sword. Then, the auburn-haired man whirled him around out of the way of a knife and fired again. More shots followed.

Damien shoved him against the wall of a nearby building ‒which was suspiciously silent, by the way, he noted angrily‒ and then the nearest culprit charged and he forgot all about that. He fought his opponent twice before he was able to reload his pistol and fire. Having to avoid another knife, he missed and found a blade pressed against his throat.

The next second the man broke down, Damien's sword piercing his chest from behind. Their eyes met for a split second, and memories of many moments like this flared between them. Damien's lips curved into the beginnings of a smile. Then they were moving, back to back again, Damien's sword singing through the air, giving Gerald enough time to reload his pistol.

The remaining bandits charged as one, and Damien killed one of them effortlessly, easily finding an opening in the man's defense. With a sharp cry the man fell. Now there were only two left. Gerald shot one down, missing for two times but taking aim better for the third shot. The last one drew a sizable knife and advanced straight at Damien, ignoring the other man's sword. Gerald's breath caught in his throat, there was no way Damien could parry this, not at this speed, and he was moving before the thought could form itself, twisting, turning them around, and thankfully, Damien'd understood and was moving with him. Gerald imbedded the hilt of his now useless pistol into the bandit's skull. The lifeless body dropped to the ground.

Gerald turned, and met his other's beautiful, concerned eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Yeah," Damien said, grinning.

Deep relief flooded through him, its suddenness throwing him forward, right into the other man's arms, his hands gripping the strong shoulders.

Damien's arms encircled him in return, and he might have melted right there and then. Which was completely unacceptable, Tarrants didn't melt. Gerald smiled and found himself unable to care. He reached out.

Jade green eyes met his straight on.

Then, Damien shook his head slightly and removed Gerald's hands from his shoulders.

"We should leave before their friends show up. Or the guards," he suggested, with an indicating nod.

Gerald frowned but had to agree. The currents were sharp as a knife with danger.

They crossed the intersection swiftly, leaving the scene of attack behind them and then breaking into a run. They didn't make half the street as the noise of a single shot cut through the air.

Damien stumbled.

_TBC..._

**Extra Notes:**

1) I'm fully aware that 'venatorius'/'venaticus' resp. is the correct Latin translation for 'of (or for) the chase/hunt'. But we could go and try comparative linguistics on Terran versus Ernan Latin… *grins*


End file.
